Pulling Apart a Butterfly
by Love Psychedelico
Summary: [ANGST] Have you ever pulled apart a butterfly? I have. It’s a vague memory, a guilty one, but beautiful nonetheless, like all memories with Hibernius. EvTall, angst, angst, more angst, gore, blood, tears. Book 11 spoilers.


For _Inyx_, as usual, because I love her and I feel guilty for accidentally spilling spoilers to her. I'm sorry. (sniffle)

Disclaimer and Warning – Spoilers for book 11. Suggestions of male-male relationships, especially that of Evra and Tall, but nothing graphic or clear. I do not own anyone in this fic, I swear. Can't you tell that if I did own the book, I wouldn't have killed off Hibbie?

And I'm telling you, _flamerers_, if you want a go at me, leave your e-mail. Don't be a bastard. I need a word with you small-minded people. If you don't like my work, fine. But if you don't like slash, DON'T BLOODY READ SLASH. DON'T BLOODY FLAME ME FOR WRITING SLASH! Sometimes, you guys really make me sick.

* * *

**Pulling Apart a Butterfly**

So there I stood. In a pool of blood. With my dead son in my arms, my dead lover sprawled out in a grotesque splatter of chipped bone and cloggy blood on the ground in front of me. And it's strange. I don't feel anything. Yet.

Your mind is an amazing thing. It is a shock absorber, for a start. It fuzzles your mind up and keeps you from thinking – just like the feeling you get after banging your head against a wall, or getting pleasantly drunk at a party.

I feel sick. Cold, dry tears have stuck to my cheeks in streams, my aching eyes unable to shed any more. I think my lips are trembling. I think _I'm _trembling.

And then it comes. The shock absorber collapses, and a flood of pain, and literally so, rushes into my brain, causing an overload of emotions – and I just choke. I can't cry, there are no more tears, I just choke, and gasp, and my knees collapse, and oh god Hibernius's cold blood splashes beneath my weight and I feel sick and Shancus is so limp and icy, and . . . .

I lower my son's awkwardly broken body aside onto the ground, and drop my head to place my right ear above Hibernius's chest. It's obvious he's dead, I just can't believe it, I don't _want_ to believe it, and I know damn well I won't hear anything – but when I really don't hear his heartbeat – I scream. A voiceless scream, for I have lost my voice. How many times I'd lain my head on his chest, I don't know, and every time I'd heard warm, comforting beats, fast and strong, upon a broad, warm chest. And I'd be relieved that he's just like any one of us, not a cold dead puppet of the meddler, but a human being. But now, he _is_ cold and he _is_. . . .He's dead.

Grief, as such, by it self, is not the hard bit. The hard bit is getting that one step further from a loss, "getting over" that person, and quite frankly, I don't even want to go there. I want to stay like this forever, with their dead bodies, watching the moon's heartless ice-coloured light rest upon their beautiful faces. . . . stay here until _I_ join them.

It is possible, I heard, to die of heartbreak. I don't remember the name, but Hibernius had read to me poems of love by a poet who died of heartbreak shortly after writing those poems. Beautiful, yet sad, like any other words of love that Hibernius gave me. So I'll stay here, until my heart stops like his, and I'll lie on top of his body, soaking and melting into his blood.

Though, for one thing, I know their spirits rest elsewhere. Their bodies have broken, and their spirits have flown – to the eternal source, or Paradise, as Hibernius had taught me years ago when I still was a little snakeboy. They're not here. And it's so obvious, because you can't feel their presence. When Shancus was alive, I could feel his presence a mile away – a happy, energetic ray of existence, jumping and smiling and singing. Hibernius was not as obvious – but I could still feel him, his warm but sad gaze, the love in his touch, the grief he felt for his fate – and mine.

But still – even without their souls, their bodies call to me. I know that there is nothing within those empty glassy eyes, within their cold, hardened flesh. I know that their limp tongues will never again whisper words of love, their clay cold lips will never again kiss my skin. I know that even if I sacrificed a thousand lives and sold my soul to Satan I would still not get them back. And yet – I cannot move from this place, this endless sea of blood and moonlight, as if I have been chained here like the wolfman in the cage. I am soaked. In blood, tears, and the cruel, cruel moon's sharp piercing rays.

I bend down again, and softly brush my lips against Hibernius's. The taste of blood seeps in through my lips. Salty, thick, cold blood, with a tinge of metal, as if you had licked an old silver spoon. His arms are spread out beside him, like a neatly pinned butterfly. I lay my head upon his chest again, and hold Shancus's hand, for lack of anything better to do. Just waiting, waiting for misery and grief to take me to where they are.

* * *

Have you ever pulled apart a butterfly? I have. It's a vague memory, a guilty one, but beautiful nonetheless, like all memories with Hibernius. 

I remember sitting outside one morning, waiting for the sun to rise. I was only little, still, ten or eleven, I guess. The morning chill wasn't easy in autumn. I guess it's the snake blood in me, coldness always made me feel weak and sleepy. So I used to wake up early, wait for the sun to rise, and let the first rays of light warm my scaly skin. I walked around the campsite, a soft blanket around my body, a sleepy snake wrapped around my shoulders. I stroked her head as I walked, singing softly to her, as if to scare away the darkness around us.

In the middle of the camp was a clearing. The place where we had fires at night, the place where Truska made breakfast for us, the place where Hibernius had taught me how to bake marshmallows on a stick. The fire had gone by now, of course, remnants of dinner and ashes gathered in the middle in a messy lump, waiting to be cleaned up. I sat next to it, pulling my snake and the blanket closer around me, my teeth chattering slightly as I watched the lightening sky hopefully. Then I looked at the extinguished fire again, watching the soft beams illuminating the sunken ashes. I blew at the ashes, and watched as the tiny grey particles dance in the first rays of the morning, a smile on my face.

And then I saw it. Next to the fire. Blotches of bright blue and purple on velvet black. Wings. Intense, veiled beauty condensed into a minuscule body. A butterfly. Unseasonal, but breathtakingly picturesque and heart-achingly transient. Dead.

It is kind of strange to admit this – but that was the scariest, yet most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. If you have ever seen a dead butterfly, you would know. It stops your heart, literally. Such a beautiful little thing, so short-lived, so. . . .still, and dead, yet stirringly emotive. Something that really speaks to you, and makes you think. Or even stop your thoughts completely. Lifeless, but vividly vibrant.

Just then I had a sudden urge. I don't remember if I knew what hit me, I don't even know why I did it. Maybe I was jealous of its gracious beauty, for everyone I ever knew before my life at the cirque had told me every day how hideous and repulsive I was. Or maybe I wanted no one else to see it, I wanted to keep it locked in my memory and _my_ memory only. Maybe it was just pure madness or cruelty striking me.

I picked it up. The wings trembled a little in the wind as if it were still alive – and the first of the stronger morning rays glinted off its glistening aquamarine wings, its glittering amethyst blotches. I held each wing between my fingers, . . . and pulled. The wings broke off quite easily, and the body dropped to the ground. It was like a guilty pleasure – like I knew I shouldn't be doing it but I did anyway. Almost _erotic_, in a way, if you know what I mean. I ripped the wings up, and let it go in the wind – they fluttered like tiny butterflies of their own, dancing in the autumn wind, then fell to the ground in a sad, dead pile.

My fingers were covered in gleaming blue-black powder from the wings. I frowned and tried to blow it off, then frantically wiped my fingers on my blanket – but the glimmer stayed there, like stains of blood, as if accusing me of the slaughter. I bit my lips, guiltiness washing over me although I had no idea why I felt guilty. It was already dead, yet I felt like _I_ had killed it. I felt hatred – towards myself, of course, and I felt tears roll down my face. I stamped on the butterfly's fallen body, and felt its small body crush beneath my bare feet. I yelped, feeling sick, and started running, dropping my blanket on the way and upsetting the snake on my shoulders. My heart screamed, I wept, and I ran. I ran to the only place I could ever run to for comfort – the only place I ever had that I could really call home – Hibernius's van.

The van door was locked. Like it always was. And as a little boy who had never really experienced "superiority", I had felt that little bit better than everyone else, because Hibernius always told me where he hid the spare key. I ran to the back of the van, lifted up the stone frog (part of the circus display), retrieved the key from under it, and ran to the door again. I missed my blanket as I fumbled with the keys, shivering and chattering my teeth. My snake was hissing on my shoulders, disturbed from her sleep and a little upset.

'. . . 's okay, we'll be warm soon.'

I whispered to her, and kissed her lightly on the side of her head. She hissed more softly, poking out her tongue – her approval. I smiled, tears still hot and wet on my cheeks, trickling down my chin.

The key clicked, and I stumbled into the room. The room was a degree or two warmer than outside, and I breathed the air in – I could smell the scent of Hibernius, warm and comforting like burning wood. I took another deep breath, inhaling it – I loved being there, in his presence – but that day, his presence just was not enough. I closed the door behind me with my foot, careful not to let cold draughts in. I didn't want to wake Hibernius up, I just wanted to see his face, because I thought that maybe. . . . I would feel better.

Hibernius always slept with a loose buttoned shirt and long pants in winter. Truska had made them for him, and he treasured them. Truska had made me some, but I kept on outgrowing them. . . .So I just slept in my shorts, on a hammock, a blanket wrapped around me. It comforted me to see Hibernius's sleeping face. When he slept, all his worries were seemingly gone, and the little worry-wrinkles that appeared between his brows usually had disappeared – he looked more like an overgrown kid than anything else.

I was planning on going away after seeing him – but had a sudden urge – and snuggled into bed next to him. Quietly, of course, so I wouldn't wake him. I nuzzled his warm, broad chest, soaking into the pure warmth and pleasant scent of my most favourite person in the world. My snake hissed and curled around my feet, and I let her get comfortable by opening the bedsheets a little to let her into the warmth. Just then, I became aware of an arm around my waist, and looked up to find a sleepy-eyed Hibernius smiling down at me.

'Good-morning, Evra.'

'Mr. . . .Tall? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up, I swear, it's just I . . . .'

I choked, the tears coming again, remembering the butterfly's torn wings. Hibernius obviously realised something was wrong, and gave me a long strong hug, running his hand through my hair.

'Evra. . . .Tell me what happened.'

'. . . . . .I. . .' I choked again, not knowing how to say whatever it was I wanted to say. So I told him about the butterfly, and how I tore it, and how I felt guilty, and sad, and miserable, and. . . 'Why did it have to die, Mr Tall? Why. . . why did something so pretty have to die? Why can't ugly things like. . . .' I choked and sniffled, '. . . ugly things like _me_ die?'

I looked up to see the scariest Mr-Tall-glare I had ever seen. His voice was equally as scary when he opened his mouth.

'_NEVER_, Evra, NEVER say that again!'

'But. . . . . . .,'

I pouted, scared and teary. That look always worked on Hibernius, and I knew it. He loosened his frown and smiled a little, stroking my cheek.

'You are the most beautiful boy I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, and don't you ever say something like that again, because you know it's not true.'

'But. . . . everyone used to tell me that I'm ug. . .'

Hibernius bent down quickly and stifled the word with a quick kiss. I blushed and blinked – it wasn't like the first time he had kissed me, but. . . .in that position, it was kind of. . . different. Warm. Ticklish. Comfy. Soft. And. . . . .it made me happy inside. Hibernius smiled.

'Don't. You're beautiful, and I wouldn't lie to you, you know that.'

I nodded, and pushed my head against his chest. I can hear soft, slow beats. I felt suddenly sleepy from the sound of Hibernius's heartbeats, his soft scent and the warmth of his arms around me.

'But Mr Taaall. . . .'

'Hmm?'

'. . . .Why did it have to die?'

'All things must perish one day.'

'. . . . Even you?'

'Yes, even me. Nothing is unchanging, nothing is eternal. Or perhaps if there were something that were unchanging – that would be change itself. And with change comes grief, like when you saw that butterfly change.'

'Change? It was dead. . .'

'Dying is just another change. It is not the end. There is nothing to be guilty of, for the butterfly's body was empty. Its soul had flown away with new wings, and it's free and fluttering over the long-grass and flowers in Paradise.'

'Mmm-hmm. . . .'

I was nodding away by then, Hibernius's words too hard to understand – but good enough to comfort me. And his had was stroking my cheek. It felt good. My eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. I fell asleep then, before Hibernius whispered one more thing:

'Do not be scared of change, Evra, we will all reunite, even if we are separated. . . . for a while.'

* * *

I stare down at Hibernius's frozen face. Peaceful. Half-a-smile on his lips. I stroke some hair out of his face, and kiss those icy lips again. I kiss his eyelids, and then his lips again, and again. I throw my head back up, letting the moonlight illuminate my blood-soaked face, my tear-strewn face. 

'. . . .Are you flying over the long-grass, Shancus? Are you soaring over flower fields, Hibernius?. . . .' I smiled, and closed my eyes, 'We'll reunite. . . .won't we, Hibernius? I know you wouldn't lie to me, you never have. . . . Take care of Shancus. . . . .I. . . .'

I keep the rest inside, and open my eyes to stare up at the milkyway. It's a beautiful night. It really is. They didn't die this night. They changed. They just changed. And I know I'll see them again. I'll tell them then. I'll tell Shancus about change, and I'll tell Hibernius how much I loved him. And how much I still do. And how I will, forever and a day, and how perhaps _that_ is one more thing that he can be sure is unchanging.


End file.
